Drinks
by Cha Oseye Tempest Thrain
Summary: Spoiler warning for Endgame and Season 4. Danny didn’t seem surprised on the phone he seems even less surprised here, watching someone else get drunk. Rated 'M' for language...


**Disclaimer:** I own neither _Without A Trace_ nor its characters. This is for entertainment purposes only. I make no money from this.

**Credits**: Thank you to my incredible beta-reader kate98

**Spoilers:** "Endgame" and Season 4.

**Author's Note**: I actually wrote this _before_ I read some spoilers for Season 4… but what I read proves I'm a pretty good guesser. Since I'm telling the future, I won't place bets on full details… so if everything doesn't work out, don't shoot me. Please. I never claimed to be psychic.

**Drinks**

It hits him suddenly and unexpectedly. Maybe it's the water, crashing against the walls and sounding like bullets around his body. Maybe it's that subconscious sense of being vulnerable, here, naked and exposed as if he was fully dressed in a suit that would do nothing to stop inrushing metal. Or maybe it's just random, his brain deciding to fire those particular neurons _now_, instead of some time when it might make sense.

He staggers from the shower, not even bothering with a towel, fighting his muscles in a vain effort to stay standing. He's dripping all over his normally pristine bathroom floor, water spraying out the open door behind him, spattering all over everything. For once, he doesn't care, doesn't even think to care, all he can do is listen to his heart roaring faster and faster in his ears.

As quick as it starts, it's over, but he's still shaking, full of adrenaline his body can't use. Forcing himself to his feet, he makes his way to the telephone, paging through his little black book for the number. He doesn't call a doctor or an ambulance; they can't help him now. He's still alive; they're useless. He calls the one person he knows will understand.

They sit, side-by-side, not touching, each staring straight ahead, lost in their own world. The lights are dim – to afford privacy, to save energy, to encourage the people here to stay calm. Even the music is low-key and non-offensive, just like the clientele.

"Hey."

"Hey."

They've both been here for five minutes at least, yet only now do they greet each other. Danny didn't seem surprised on the phone; he seems even less surprised here, watching someone else get drunk. Maybe it's a novelty for him. Then again, given his lifestyle, probably not. From the sound of things, all Danny gave up was the alcohol, he still does the parties and the clubs… Martin wonders what he thinks about a quiet, sedate place like this.

"You called."

There's a long moment of silence as Martin tries to determine whether the simple words carry any recrimination to them. A phone call, drinks… maybe this is wrong.

"Sorry, it's just…"

"Not a problem." Danny takes a sip of his drink, still watching the far wall. Another long moment passes as each of them thinks. "You talk to the in-house, yet?"

Martin shakes his head. "Nope. OPR's pissed, but I got a letter from someone else." Someone who doesn't know enough to push or ask more questions.

"Letter's not the same as talking." Most people don't think of Danny as the lawyer-type, it's one of the reasons they're a good team. Martin looks innocent and Danny doesn't come across as being as smart as he is, as being able to catch the details that he does. But Danny speaks double-talk better than Martin, when he has to. He knows the rules, how to hear what's not said. And he's right, a letter's _not_ the same as talking, all it says is that you know how to lie.

Martin takes deep swallow, scotch on the rocks and not his first. "I know, but it works. I mean, it's just… Shrinks don't understand. Oh, they've got all the statistical data that says you're supposed to feel this, and you ought to feel like that, but they don't _feel_ it. They don't go through it, because they've never had to go through anything bad enough to bring it on."

"And those that do…"

"…end up just as fucked up and unable to do anything about it as the rest of us."

"Which just goes to prove," Danny reasons, with the philosophy of the drunk, though he's only had soda and seven, "that fucked up is its own state of normal."

Martin nods. He gets that, all right. Look around any room and at least seventy-five percent of the inhabitants would be fucked up somehow. In this small little pair it jumps to a hundred: Danny's a long-time drunk from a family where violence and addiction masqueraded as love. Next to him sits the habitual runaway, spoiled brat for whom spoiled wasn't enough, who used to prefer garbage and cold streets to the home-cooked warmth of family-strangers. People think Martin followed in Daddy's footsteps; instead, it's his way of shoving his independence in Victor's face. Even as the boss, Victor can't control his son, not entirely. It's another reason Martin won't see the in-house, though. He won't admit weakness, not with the old man looking on, as Martin knows he is. He'd rather die than admit to needing help for himself. He orders another drink and wonders what he'd do if he became addicted to this stuff. Would he be strong enough to say the words that Danny does every week? He doubts it. He thinks he'd probably die of pride, instead, alone and miserable after driving everyone away.

Maybe he should do that. Maybe he should just quit all this shit and become a recluse, holing up in that old lake cabin handed down from Fitzgerald to Fitzgerald and so rarely ever used. He could rebuild it, show up in town once a year for supplies and otherwise cut himself off from anything human. He could do that, he's good at solitude and misery.

"So… what are you going to do when you get out? Pass the bar… leave us mortals behind in your dust? Prosecution? Actually put those sons-of-bitches away?"

Danny shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe civil… contract law."

"Naw." Martin shakes his head, or at least the room moves a bit. He shouldn't be _this_ drunk, this soon… maybe it's the painkillers and the booze. Don't the instructions say you're not supposed to mix them? "Don't do that. Trust me, if _anyone_ deserves to be locked away, it's the rich bastards. I know, I am one, from a long line of bastards who'd screw over anyone to get their own way. I was born to be a politician, which is just another way of saying 'consummate liar.'" In the mirrored wall, his smile looks crooked. "Just don't tell me you're thinking of defence."

Danny shrugs again. "Maybe… specialising in federal law would be good." He seems to be smiling crookedly, too. "After all, defence lawyers are important. Everybody knows that FBI agents are dishonest."

"I take exception to that." Martin's words are beginning to slur, he's not sure how many he's had right now. Good thing, then, he's drinking with an alcoholic. "Dishonesty implies simplicity. I am… complicated. B'sides, the truth is better for fucking people up. An' sneaky 'fence lawyers can't nail you on anything." He knows there's a reason he's saying that, he's not sure just what that reason is though.

"You know, if I do become a defence attorney, I'm going to take exception to that. Sneaky implies complexity. I am a very simple person."

"Heard here first." Martin raises his glass and his movements are steady even if his words aren't. It's true, though. Danny _is_ a simple person. Not stupid, but very direct. Direct like a fist to the head. He just wishes Danny would warn him before doing those things, but he knows now. Danny doesn't plan… he's not a planner. Like… his brother. They're dreamers, which is why they do stupid things when the dreams go to hell because real life gets in the way. Martin has never dreamed. He's always had a specific goal and worked towards, and if he's been thwarted, he's taken care to learn from his stupid mistakes. Like Sam. Martin wanted, Martin got, and then he found out he didn't want anymore. And he learned. It wasn't _Jack_ that Sam was looking for, it was the clandestineness of it all. The freedom from there ever being a commitment. He'll remember that the next time he meets a gorgeous, driven, married-man obsessed woman. Or maybe it's because Sam wouldn't change the fucked-up ratio a bit, and that's what Martin needs: someone well adjusted enough to balance his neurosis, his fear that he's not really loved, that it's all a show and a smile for public display. Someone _not_ just like Mother, in other words.

Or maybe just fucked-up differently. Maybe someone more like… "Any hot girls in AA?" At least people there are cognizant of their problems, right?

"Okay, you are definitely past the point of 'too drunk.'" Danny drops some cash on the bar – the wallet he pulls it from looks familiar to Martin. Maybe because the driver's license inside says 'Martin Fitzgerald', but he can't be sure. "I'm taking you home." He wraps an arm around Martin, lifting him off the barstool.

"I don' wanna go home." Martin complains. "Don' make me go home, 'kay? You can pretend you never saw me." He goes limp – it's fairly easy in his current condition. Let the FBI man just leave him here, like they never do. Yeah.

Danny doesn't let go. "_My_ place. Not yours."

Martin straightens up, or at least tries. "I'm not _that_ drunk." That is, after all, the drawback to Danny as the perfect life-companion. Now if he were a girl… but he's not, so he isn't perfect, not even close.

"Neither am I." Danny shoots back. "What I am, is the proud owner of a lumpy couch and a loud alarm clock. If you think I'm going to miss this opportunity…"

"I don' _get_ hangovers," Martin brags, though it's been a long time since he's been this drunk, maybe things have changed.

"Did I mention the next-door neighbour's baby?" Danny hauls him, stumbling, out the door, propping him against the side of the car while unlocking it. "Or that the kid upstairs thinks he's Hendrix?"

Martin just closes his eyes. Funny, but a lumpy couch and loud neighbours sounds good. He's never had that… it's either been lap of luxury or pits of hell, he's never had an in-between, never had normal. And right now, the warmth and messiness of a friend sounds much better than the cold sterility of his everyday life. Maybe tomorrow he'll feel differently, but that's tomorrow and he'll deal with it then. For now, he's not alone. It's nice.


End file.
